


kinktober 2019 - day 19

by birdginia



Series: Kinktober 2019 [19]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Death, Cock Warming, Coercion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophiliac Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia
Summary: They’re props,Joker tells himself,no different from juggling balls or the high wire.They are not my brothers and sisters.





	kinktober 2019 - day 19

"Rehearsal" is what Father called it. In practice, it is no different from the other private performances the troupe puts on for him. The scale is larger, requiring the services of more children, but Father insists that it does not require Joker to play master of ceremonies until the real thing.

"Come keep your father's lap warm while I enjoy the show," Kelvin says as the night’s performers are lined up. "You still want to feel useful, don't you?"

Joker obediently goes to his knees and removes the blanket over his father's legs, pushing the sounds of the opening curtain from his mind as best he can.

It's far from the first time he's had his mouth on his father's cock, but one might think otherwise, hearing the unabashed moan from Father's lips that morphs into an ecstatic squeal as the first dull _thud_ of the performance resounds behind Joker's back. Joker starts to move, carefully sucking him to hardness, but Father places one hand softly in his hair.

"Not now, lad, don't be so impatient. Just keep me company for a while, would you? That’s my boy.”

Joker understands. He swallows Father’s cock down to the root—an easy task, for a professional—and does not move any further, letting it rest on his tongue, half-hard. He adjusts his sitting position to be as comfortable as possible—the shows can get rather lengthy, given enough preparation and… resources. And the troupe certainly has been productive lately in acquiring those.

Father keeps his hand on Joker, stroking his hair gently. His hips only stutter when the occasional crash of flesh on wood sends him into fits of laughter, his cock bumping the back of Joker's throat, his other hand slapping the arm of the chair in merriment. With no movement to occupy himself with, the sounds from the stage are uncomfortably, acutely loud. 

_They’re props,_ Joker tells himself, _no different from juggling balls or the high wire._ He shuts his eyes, trying to focus on the scent of stale sweat in his nose or the cold floor beneath him or the way the joint of his hand has been stiff lately, really, he should see Doctor about it or Beast will nag at him.

_They are not my brothers and sisters._

Father claps wildly at the next sickening crunch. It nearly drowns out the one after.

Joker's jaw is sore. It does not make the sounds go away.

"Ah, and this, this will be the grand finale," Father says, marvel in his voice. "One," _thud_, "two," _thud,_ "and three!" _Crack, thud._

Father's cock is full in Joker’s mouth now.

He’s always loved children.

Music plays as Father's hand tightens in Joker's hair, urging him to finally move. He bobs his head along with the pace his father sets, flicking his tongue in all the ways he knows will finish the job quickly.

"Ah, it will be perfect, our final performance," Father moans. "When we finally meet again, my sweet, my Ci—_ah!_"

Joker swallows quickly, getting the bitter taste out of his mouth as fast as he can, but keeping his mouth in place until Father allows him permission to let go.

"Thank you, my boy. You’re always so good for me, aren’t you?” He pats Joker's cheek fondly, and Joker finds himself smiling.

"Go clean up, now. We want the stage reset for opening night, after all."

Joker gets to his feet and turns around, glancing over the bloodied, collapsed figures of the children before him—limbs at the wrong angles, knives jutting out of flesh, burns still smoldering, vacant staring eyes.

Debris to tidy up before the next show. Broken props to be discarded.

Nothing he needs to care about.


End file.
